


Desiderare

by monaboyd_archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-19
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 13:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4437848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monaboyd_archivist/pseuds/monaboyd_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The broken poet watches the butterfly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The broken poet watches the butterfly.

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the Monaboyd.net Archive, which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years . To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile.  
> \----  
> I have peaked. My brain hurts. This is a poem; or part Viggo!prose and part cryptic!riddle.

A name the foliage vibrant in the sultry tongue  
the watching watcher watches in watchful silence  
the one butterfly he would not catch for himself  
butterfly too iridescent effervescent evanescent  
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain  
by azure so true it hurts even in death  
butterfly too perfect to last long enough  
for the one who needs a lasting anchor in the storm  
butterfly like an upright tree, horizon of the tossing sea, a horrid line  
a line that might not bend lest it be broken (or not?)  
he cannot paint the canvas  
for fear of ruining the white  
behind lies for paper relics, pain ravens, Jimi's fog too humid  
the brush longs for use and maybe the canvas  
would not object to a few crimson splashes  
(never the whole can; the emptiness hurts too much)  
yet though his own boiling liquid salt  
he will not see  
for the only crimson splashes come from  
the deep imbedded lovesick core that throbs for this butterfly  
literal ancient rome's sider to excoriate the brush  
butterfly waxes hypnogogic for everyone to ooh and ah  
a hateful mantra on an open wound  
he longs for and loathes the swallowtail  
(pointed tips and gold too perfect to be real)  
his hands against his heart, his heart against his soul  
his soul against his hands and in the end the only still  
body is the the butterfly even in the thunderstorms  
pourquoi devez-vous être si beau, melda?  
V. M.

 

TBC


	2. Mittere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The butterfly is broken now.

Butterfly who never had his spirit broken  
if he had a heart at all beneath the stardust  
(no room for it with wings as fragile)  
he was the creeping thing before  
shut himself up for so long  
and pale came out the butterfly; and yet  
he was a butterfly before, now grown to angel  
through glistening blood and sweat and random peices of heart  
the watcher, I, allowed approach  
I cleaned his wounds and held him long  
this angel know knew how it was to lose  
he knew what it was to love  
he knew the toils of purgatory and back again  
in that moment I replaced his shattered heart with mine  
he took it eagerly and kept himself alive  
I have left none for myself but now he can share  
De mooie lijn heeft voor me alleen geslingerd.  
~Viggo

Fin


End file.
